CHAPTER III

The room was small, but it was papered, it was rugged, its floor was
painted and waxed, its window--opening into the court, by the way--was
hung with chintz and net curtains, its bed was garnished with sheets and
counterpane, its chairs were upholstered and in perfect repair and
polish. It was not Arizona, emphatically not, but rather the sweet and
garnished and lavendered respectability of a Connecticut village. My
dirty old cantinas lay stacked against the washstand. At sight of them
I had to grin. Of course I travelled cowboy fashion. They contained a
toothbrush, a comb, and a change of underwear. The latter item was
sheer, rank pride of caste.

It was all most incongruous and strange. But the strangest part, of
course, was the fact that I found myself where I was at that moment. Why
was I thus received? Why was I, an ordinary and rather dirty cowpuncher,
not sent as usual to the men's bunk house? It could not be possible that
Old Man Hooper extended this sor